Changeling
by Circe-Aeaea
Summary: A moment of vanity during the genesis of Dernhelm. Book canon, with major spoilers for those who have not read the books.


Shall I cut?  
  
The shears hang loose in my grasp for a moment as I consider, stilled in the act of raising them to the shank of pale flax twisted within my left hand. I see the tableau in the small mirror before me, echoing on its convex surface: the pail point of the shears, the edge of the hauberk that now hides my chest and throat, my fingers threaded through and through with the living spun gold of my tresses. The mirror's surface is grime laden and streaked, imperfect in its crafting, so that the image seems faintly ghost- like, ill-defined. So strange, that this thing of luxury should be one of the few objects in my room at Dunharrow. It stands as silent accusation, a signifier of who I should be, and the limits I will willingly cross, ridden down like so much grass on the greensward.  
  
Frustrated, I throw the shears onto the pitted wood of the tabletop, rising from my stool to pace away. It is only a few steps to the far side of the small chamber, and the distance does naught to alleviate my temper. I turn, and can see the whole of my reflection upon the mirror's surface, gauzy and golden-lit by the hearth fire. I need no mirror to show me the changes I have already wrought, and those I must still complete, although the view is telling.  
  
I am a dark figure now, my costume that of any armed rider of the Mark, instead of the gleaming white robes and shining silver corslet of the Lady of Rohan. Nay, I think knowingly, my attire brings anonymity, and that is as it must be now. The leather underjerkin, mail shirt, and tooled hide breastplate obscure all traces of my sex, leaving my body strangely formless and unremarkable, albeit still less in bulk than the men of my nation. They will think me a boy, fey in mood, silent as one riding to certain doom. For doom is what I would call upon myself, were I able to communicate with the long disinterested lords of the West. But they have long since ceased listening to the cries of those such as myself, which is well enough; honor and purpose are within my own hands, and I will have no others, be they ever so lordly or divine, gainsay the course of my choosing.  
  
My eyes trace upward along my figure's image, and I grimace when gaze meets gaze. There, haloing my visage, is the telltale reminder of my identity that I now must erase, ere it betray me. My unbound mane trails about my shoulders and arms, aura like, swaying in almost sensuous exploration against the unfamiliar elements of my costume. It is a strange combination, the warrior's arms and the maiden's hair.  
  
Determined, I move back once more to my stool, lifting the shears again to the tendrils of hair now fisted within my left palm. Yes, I shall cut.  
  
Once again, I freeze, cowardly in the face of this act.  
  
For so long, this mass of false gold has been my self and my vanity, the image of both my honor and frailty. How many suitors have sung of Éowyn, the golden lady of the Golden Hall? How many have praised my fairness, my beauty and demureness, the honor my character and duty bring to my family? Yet they never look beyond the shield of seeming this image creates, have never seen the honor that would yet speak for itself. Once I thought there might be one who would, but that was not to be. His heart resides elsewhere, and I realized quickly enough that my transient human beauty and quick blood could not contend with a thing born of the stars themselves.  
  
And yet, hope I did have that he, who seemed so wise and farseeing as to be the very image of the nobility of old returned, would see in me that fire which burned for validation, the cold need to be tried and proven that mirrored his own search. So I humbled myself before him, begging upon bended knee in a manner no man or woman of the House of Eorl had ever done before, asking to be granted my wish to ride with him as one equal in will and resolution. From the corner of my eyes, I saw his companions blanch, and the two darkling ones exchange a quizzical look, but I paid them no heed, and locked my gaze to his. And there I saw, before ever he made reply, the answer I most dreaded, icy and sure as his grimly set expression. Maiden, those eyes said, the field of valour is no place for you, and you must abide, once more, at the command of others.  
  
No better was my meeting with my lord and uncle two days later, when I asked once more to be allowed to ride at his side to the great battle that lies before us. His answer was soft and gentle, but the reasoning the same. Sad eyes did he turn my way, as though lamenting my obdurate heart. Nay, I will not be so cast off, not when my mind and will are one, and I know my course better than those who would speak for me.  
  
If the Lady of Rohan may not ride to protect the honor of her name and family, then another may go in her place, bound to the desires of her secret will. So I have set her aside, that daughter of duty and craven acquiescence; she will trouble me no longer. In her place this new creation will ride, from the ashes of her memory and being to the ashes of a funeral pyre upon the plain of battle. A little life this new changeling shall inherit, but what may it not accomplish with such freedom?  
  
Why, then, am I having such troubles ridding myself of this last vestige of the self I have sent into exile? I look at my reflection in the mirror again, noticing how pale the knuckles of my left hand have become, as though they keep a death grip upon my hair. I laugh mirthlessly at the thought, and release my hold on both hair and shears, surrendering my intention with a low sigh. If I cannot perform this act, then I must work around it, as time grows too short to continue this silent debate. I reach into a box on the table and retrieve a handful of golden hairpins. Working swiftly, I bind my hair in three densely packed plaits, and then pin these down to the back of my head. The helm I have chosen will easily cover it, just as it will obscure the telling femininity of my features.  
  
Yes, perhaps this is the only solution before me. I will bind and hide my hair as I have bound and hid my body, letting none on this journey see the truth that rides, dour and silent, beside them. Let it be the final revelation of our questing end, and let all those who see wonder at it; a maid may strive for the honor of any warrior capriciously born to it through a trick of chance, that is what my story will be to them. In the end, should the day be ours and victory succored through great loss, let this unbound hair serve as benediction for the body left behind, a reminder of she who once was, servant and bondswoman, born knowing and discontent, yet fulfilled through choice and action. Should the enemy win the day, then it matters not, for we will all be trampled into the mire, anonymous and equal in our fates.  
  
I look back to the mirror, and espy a lock of unruly hair, peeping out from the nape of my fair neck. I raise the shears and cut it away, placing this last souvenir of Éowyn-who-was on the table before me. On a whim, I pick up the mirror, and smash it down on top of the errant lock, listening to the dull crunch of glass into wood. I smile, a secret thing, only for my own black amusement.  
  
Standing, I take the helm placed by my side, shrouding my head within its harsh confines. It is finished. She is gone, and will not return. Never again will a looking glass mimic the pale confusion of her duty-sworn glance, the slow decay of countless trammeled hopes. I stand now a newborn male, a he who does not exist: Dernhelm of the Rohirrim, soldier of Elfhelm's éored.  
  
I turn from the hush of my rooms, and speed to the forecourt; now, to the weapontake, Dernhelm, for destiny waits on no man. 


End file.
